


The Professional

by readtolive



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst, Assasins, Based on the movie "Leon", Bloodshed, Corrupt police, Derek and Stiles don't really have sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Revenge, Russian Roulette, Size Difference, Stiles is a Minor, Weapons, a lot of the dialogue is from there, explicit rating is mostly only for violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 05:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11594052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readtolive/pseuds/readtolive
Summary: Derek is a professional assassin, a cleaner, as he prefers. When Stiles' entire family gets murdered, he receives sanctuary from reluctant Derek





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the movie ''Leon''

Derek is sitting at the back room table at Guido’s, a dingy little restaurant in Little Italy. It is melting hot both outside and inside, but he is wearing his leather jacket anyways, and he has his sunglasses on – he feels better that way.

It’s not like anyone would be surprised by a suspicious looking dude at Guido’s.

The restaurant is his base, the only constant thing in his ever-changing routine. Across from him is Deaton, Tony for short, his friend and his boss; his bald head is shiny with sweat and his white tank top covered in sweaty patches.

“Allora,” he says, squinting benevolently at Derek. They both like using their mother tongue occasionally. Helps with the nostalgia a little. “Come stai, Derek?”, Tony asks in his deep baritone.

Derek grips a tall glass filled with cold milk in front of him. “Bene.” He doesn't smile. He just waits.

Deaton puts out his cigarette. “Okay. Let's talk business.” He pushes a photograph with a black and white image of a guy’s headshot towards Derek. “This fat bastard is trying to move in on Morizio's business. And you know, Morizio is a reasonable guy. He just wants a little conversation. But this guy, he doesn’t wanna hear about it. Maybe he'll listen to you. He comes to town every Tuesday. Are you free Tuesday?”

Of course Derek's free Tuesday. He's free any goddamn day for any job Tony gives him. It's all he does. Derek picks up his glass of cold milk and drinks a little. “Yeah. I’m free Tuesday.”

Tony doesn't say anything. Derek finishes his milk, grabs the photograph from the table and leaves.

Derek is highly motivated and efficient. He doesn’t kill, he cleans for Deaton. He is an excellent cleaner. Drug dealers, criminals, corrupt cops. Scum of the earth. Derek cleans them all. It makes him feel a little less dead on the inside.

  
Three days later, he pays a little visit to Mr. Jones the Fatman and makes sure he gets Morizio’s message. When he’s finished, Mr. Jones’ seven bodyguards are incapacitated and Mr. Jones is a shivering mess of fear and terror. Derek lets his blonde bimbo go. He leaves the bags filled with heroin and the stacks of dollars on the suite’s table. He doesn't care for any of that.

 

After, Derek buys two cartons of milk and heads back to his place.

When he climbs the three flights of stairs in his rundown building, there’s a boy sitting on the floor of the hallway, his skinny legs dangling through the banister, smoking a cigarette.

He’s very young, too young to be smoking anyway. Derek thinks he can’t be more than fifteen. His face is all sharp angles, eyes too big for his face.

When Derek approaches, the boy jerks and tries to hide his cigarette.

Derek looks at him. “Why did you hide the cigarette?”, he asks, his voice hoarse and scratchy from unuse.

The boy leans back on his arms. “This building is full of rats. Didn’t want my old man to find out. Got enough problems.”

Derek almost cracks a smile at the boy's posturing. It's a good thing his face has forgotten how to smile. He wouldn't want to encourage the boy's bad habits. His voice sounds more mature than Derek expected, but his innocence is clear as day.

Derek leans in a little when he sees that the boy’s cheekbone is covered in red scraps and purple bruises.

“What happened?”, Derek asks against his better judgment. He shouldn’t care. He doesn't understand why he asked at all.

“I fell from my bike,” the boy lies, looking at Derek with challenge.

Derek sighs and takes the cigarette from his hand. He puts it out against the iron part of the banister. “Stop smoking.”

“Don’t tell my dad.” The boy’s big brown eyes look at him imploringly.

Derek turns around without answering and walks to his apartment.

He locks the door behind him. He takes off his jacket and his weapon belt. He gets his plant from the windowsill and cleans its leaves. He has some milk and takes a shower. Then he closes his eyes for the night.

When he opens them in the morning, first thing he does is a hundred sit-ups and a hundred push-ups. He waters his plant and puts it back on the sill. He leaves for his regular morning projection of Gene Kelly in the local theater. Derek loves old Gene Kelly musicals. When he passes the boy’s apartment door, he can hear noise coming from it, but he ignores it.

***

Stiles lives with his father and two brothers. He is a middle child.

His dad is a retired police officer who was prematurely sent to his retirement because his concept of law and order didn’t agree with some of his corrupt bosses’ ideas. So, ever since his forced retirement, they live in constant fear of retribution.

Stiles loves his father and does everything he can to feed him properly despite their painful lack of finances. His father has a weak heart and high blood pressure and no money for doctors’ appointments.

He also loves his little brother Scott, but his older brother Jackson, not so much – he slapped Stiles across his face only this morning because he changed the TV channel from Jackson’s workout videos to cartoons.

Stiles’ mother died last year.

Stiles hides in his room. His dad and Scotty are sleeping, and despite Jackson’s shitty music which he keeps on high volume no matter what, he hears the phone ring.

Jackson’s voice booms across the apartment. “Can somebody answer the phone? I'm busy!”

Stiles picks up the phone. “Hello?”

A female voice fills his ear. “This is Marguerite McAllister... headmistress at the Spencer Schooling Wildwood, New Jersey. Is Mr. or Mrs. Stilinski home?”

Stiles freezes. He doesn’t want his father to know. He quit school two weeks ago; he is trying to earn some money by helping Mr. Vicario at his store. He just can’t go to school.

Stiles deepens his voice. “This is he.”

“Mr. Stilinski, when your wife enrolled Stiles at Spencer, she told us he had some problems. As you know, we pride ourselves on turning troubled boys into healthy, productive young men. But if they are not here, there is very little we can do. Stiles left school without permission nearly two weeks ago. I know your wife paid tuition in advance for a year, but if you will refer to the rules and regulations manual we sent you, you will see that unless there is a valid excuse for prolonged absence, your tuition will be forfeit.”

Stiles squeezes the phone handle. He hates her mentioning his mother. He hates that school. They don't know anything. “Stiles is dead,” he shouts into the receiver and hangs up.

***

When Derek returns from his movies, he sees the boy in the hallway again.

This time, the boy has a bloody nose. Derek stops in front of him. He takes out his handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to the boy.

The boy takes it and soaks up the blood. “Is life always this hard or is it just when you’re a kid?”

Derek looks at his huge eyes. The boy is too young to say things like that.

But he can’t lie to those eyes. “Always like this,” Derek replies and starts walking to his apartment. Before he reaches it, he hears the boy once again.

“Hey!”

Derek turns around.

“I'm going grocery shopping. You want some milk? One quart or two? It’s two, right?”

Derek nods his head slowly. The boy happily hops down the stairs on his coltish legs. Derek has no idea how he knows about his milk. He locks his door behind him.

***

Five DEA agents in civil clothes and their boss, agent Deucalion, stop in front of the Stilinski apartment door.

Deucalion is a middle-aged man with cruel, sadistic face. He is wearing a tan suit, and he looks livid. He cracks his neck like an animal and pops a pill out of a convenient container he keeps in his pocket. Drug addicted special agent with God complex and a sadistic streak a mile wide. Perfect. 

“I like these calm little moments before the storm. It reminds me of Beethoven. Can you hear it?” Deucalion asks his agents, waving his arms in the air. Everybody's already used to his pompous tirades right before the showdown, so nobody reacts. The quasi-intellectual lecturing seems to give him as much of a hard-on as the bloodshed of the innocents. “It's like when you put your head to the grass... you can hear it growing. You can hear the insects. Do you like Beethoven? I'm gonna play you some,” he grins in self-adoration. 

In a flash, Deucalion grabs a shotgun and shoots the door lock off. The door bangs wide open against the wall inside the Stilinski apartment.

 

Derek hears the gunshots and peeks through the hole in his door. He can’t see anything.

“Daddy!,” a child screams.

Deucalion sees Jackson in the bathroom first and shoots straight into his chest. Jackson falls against the wall and blood spreads across his white tank top in a circle.

 

Deucalion cocks the shotgun again. He smashes his way through the kitchen and dances to the imaginary music playing in his insane mind.

He enters Stiles’ father’s room as theatrically as possible. John tries to get up from the bed.

“You better stay there.” Deucalion smirks. “We said noon. That was your deadline for turning in the evidence papers. I've got one minute past,” he says, rolling the words in his mouth with gusto, like he enjoys the taste of them.

John breathes heavily, terror in his eyes.

Deucalion rolls on. “You don't like Beethoven. You don't know what you're missing. Overtures like that get my juices flowing. So powerful. But after his openings, to be honest... he does tend to get a little fucking boring. That's why I stopped!”, he laughs maniacally. “Toss the apartment,” he instructs his agents.

John cringes and tries to speak. “It’s not here. I already gave you everything. You won’t find anything, I swear. Please. Don't hurt the boys. Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Anything you want. They're innocent. They don't know anything. Just don't hurt the boys, please-”

Deucalion behaves like he doesn’t hear him. “You're a Mozart fan. I love him too. I love Mozart! He was Austrian, you know. But for this kind of work, he's a little bit light. So I tend to go for the heavier guys… Check out Brahms. He's good too.” He leaves the room without waiting for an answer.

John staggers to his feet and gets his gun, the one he kept after his retirement, and goes to the door. The DEA agents are tossing everything in the apartment. He sees Scott hiding under the bed.

John lifts his arm leaning against the doorframe and manages to shoot one of the agents.

 

Then all hell breaks loose.

Everybody starts shooting. Deucalion snarls and shoots John with the shotgun until there are no bullets left.

Scott screams and jumps out from under the bed and starts running towards the front door. One of the agents shoots him in the back. The kid drops onto his face, and the pool of blood starts spreading under him.

Deucalion keeps firing bullets from another shotgun into John, the force of it moving his body towards the hall.

“What are you doing? He's dead!”, one of the agents, Ennis, tries to drag Deucalion away.

“But he ruined my suit!”, Deucalion roars and jerks away from the grip.

 

An ancient looking lady with hair curlers opens her door and walks a little into the hallway. “What's happening out there?”

“It's all right, ma'am. D.E.A. Police. Go back to your apartment.”

“Leave that poor family alone,” the lady tries again.

“Everything's all right. Just calm down,” Ennis says.

The lady gets upset. “I am calm. I'm calm. Why don't you leave them alone?”

Deucalion loses his patience and growls at her. “ _He said go back inside_!”

She escapes into her apartment.

***

Stiles climbs onto his floor with his arms full of groceries. He has already heard the shouting. It’s coming from his apartment. He doesn’t recognize the voices. His heart is in his feet. He doesn't recognize the voices, but he hears clearly what they're saying. 

“Ennis, did you have to kill this little boy? Jesus fucking Christ!”

“You stupid fuck!! We missed one boy. He had three sons. Three! Find him!”

When Stiles passes his apartment, he doesn’t turn his head. But the door is open, and he can see in his peripheral vision his little brother Scotty lying on the floor in a bloody pool. Behind him, he sees his father, shattered. He sees people with guns milling around.

His legs carry him past his apartment, down the hall. He doesn't dare to breathe. Petrified, he keeps walking until he reaches Derek’s door. He presses the bell button. He keeps pressing it. That bell button is his whole world. Silent tears are running down his face. His finger starts hurting. 

But Derek isn’t opening the door.

“Please open the door,” Stiles whines and rings the bell again. He can still hear the shouting. _The third one's missing. Find him!_

“Please, open the door,” Stiles sobs quietly, his face contorted in agony. His nose is dripping with pink snot down his mouth and chin.

Derek steps away from his door. He looks at his floor, still reluctant. He knows what’s happened. He knows that these people have killed the boy’s entire family and will most probably kill the boy, too, if he doesn’t help him. Still, it’s a complication for him. Unnecessary complication.

Derek looks through the hole again. The boy is desperately clutching his milk and his tears are soaking into the paper bags. His mouth is repeating please, please, please.

Derek pushes his gun into the back of his pants and opens the door.

Quickly and wordlessly, the boy goes inside.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Derek watches as the boy opens his fridge and puts the milk inside. Then, to Derek’s shock, he plops down into his armchair and turns the TV on. He flips through channels until the sounds of Scooby Doo fill up the room.

Derek leaves him be for a while and presses himself next to the apartment door, until he hears that all the agents have left. Until there are no more shouts and screams from the boy’s apartment.

When everything is quiet, he turns the boy’s chair towards him. He sees that big fat tears are still rolling down his cheeks. His thin body is shaking.

“What’s your name?” Derek asks quietly, bending his back a little so that he would be on the same eye level with the boy.

The boy looks at him with watery eyes. “Stiles.”

Derek pours Stiles a glass of milk and places it in front of him. “Sorry about your family”, Derek tries. He has no idea what to do or what to say.

Stiles starts crying even harder. “They killed my father, they killed them all! Even my little brother, he was only twelve years old! Why did they have to kill him, he never did anything wrong!” Stiles hiccups and tries to clean his face with his sleeve. “He was my little brother and they killed him! I took care of him, I did, he never complained about anything and he only liked to sit next to me and cuddle.” Stiles’ shoulders shake. “Pigs!”

Derek curses on the inside. He half regrets opening his door. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have to deal with crying boys. He wouldn't have to feel bad, or sorry. He wouldn't have to feel anything at all. As it is, he has to do something now. 

“Hey, don’t talk like that about pigs,” Derek looks at Stiles seriously. “They’re usually much nicer than people.”

Stiles stops crying and looks at Derek like he's an idiot. “They smell like shit.”

Derek raises his finger and waves with it. “Not true. As a matter of fact, right now, I have one in my kitchen that’s very clean and smells very nice.”

Stiles looks at him incredulously. “You don’t have a pig in your kitchen.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I was just in there and I didn’t see any goddamn pig.”

“Don’t move.” Derek gets up and goes into his kitchen.

“Piggy, piggy,” Stiles' hears Derek's voice. “Ah, there you are!”

Stiles hears Derek make oinking sounds and then he sees a pig puppet stuck onto his hand peeking around the doorframe. He stares at it in shock.

“Hi, Stiles!”, Derek keeps oinking.

Stiles starts laughing. He really thought Derek was badass until now. The oinking has destroyed his badassery in one fell swoop. “How old do you think I am anyway?”  

Derek comes into the room and stares at him. “I don’t know. Fifteen.”

“Well, I’m eighteen, so you can stop with the pig show.”

Derek doesn't believe him. Stiles is lying, but Derek has no idea why. “You’re not eighteen.”

Stiles seems insulted. “Well, I’m not fifteen either.” Then he seems to remember something and asks Derek: “How old are you, anyway?”

Derek responds immediately. “I’m thirty. Almost thirty. I-- I will be thirty soon. In a few months.”

Stiles quirks his mouth at Derek's obvious discomfort. “Who's lying now? I don't believe you.”

Derek glares at him. “I'm not lying.”

“Hmm. You don't look that old. I mean,” Stiles waves his hands in Derek's general direction. “You look old enough with the, with the stubble and the, the... muscles. But not with the milk drinking and pig oinking,” Stiles ends sheepishly, aware that he's perhaps offending Derek. “Sorry. I’m sixteen really,” Stiles whispers finally, when he sees that Derek's  a little embarrassed. “What’s your name?”

The man looks at him. “Derek,” he says as he picks up his milk to take a sip.

“Cute name.”

Derek chokes on his milk and spills it on himself. It splashes all over his eyebrows and beard. He starts cleaning himself up with both hands, the bare one and the one with the pig on it. His ears are turning red. “Do you have any family to go to, any relatives…” He needs to take the boy somewhere... away from his apartment.

Stiles just shakes his head.

Derek gets nervous. He starts to fidget and then he gets up from the table to get some more milk.

While he’s in the kitchen, Stiles sees a leather bag on the table and opens it. It’s full of guns and bullets. “Holy shit,” he whispers.

But Derek's heard him. He rushes to the table and snaps the bag closed. “Don’t touch that, please.” He sits down again. It's not like he needs to hide anything from the boy, but he still wants to. The boy's eyes are too clever. Derek can't seem to lie to him.

“Derek, what exactly do you do for a living?”, Stiles asks looking at the man under his eyelashes.

Derek keeps his eyes on the table. “Cleaner.” Stiles will get scared now and run away from Derek. That's what Derek wants.

“You mean you’re a hit man?”

Derek doesn’t lift his head. His shoulders are tense. “Yeah.”

When he hears Stiles say “Cool,” his eyes shoot up in surprise.

Stiles smiles at him. Derek can feel the boy's... interest. There's something wrong with the boy. “Do you clean anyone?”

“No women, no kids. That’s the rules,” Derek replies automatically.

Stiles leans across the table, splaying his long fingers like fans on top of it, determination and hope in his eyes. “How much would it cost to hire someone to get those dirt bags... who killed my family?”

Derek almost laughs. This boy thinks he can afford Derek. It's funny. So, in all seriousness, Derek replies: “Ten grand a head.”

“Wow...,” Stiles nods. “I mean, it's not that much. You could definitely charge more. I just... don't have that much money at the moment.” Derek watches him bite his lips. The  wheels in the boy's head are clearly turning. “How about I work for you? And in exchange, you teach me how to clean? So I can kill the bastards myself? What do you think? I'll clean your place. I'll do the shopping. I'll even wash your clothes. Is it a deal?”

Derek looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What. No, it's not a deal.”

Stiles’ chin trembles and his eyes fill with tears once again. “What do you want me to do? I've got no place to go.”

Derek swallows a few times. He feels helpless in front of the boy. He tries to calm down and think. In the end, he speaks as gently as he can. “You've had a rough day today. Go to sleep, and we'll see tomorrow.”

Stiles accepts this. Derek tells him to take the bed and clumsily covers him with a blanket from the closet. Stiles’ eyes are half-closed already.

To Derek’s surprise, the boy grabs Derek’s hand. Nobody touches Derek, ever. “You've been really great with me, Derek... and it's not always like that. You know?” The boy lets go of him. “Good night.”

Derek turns the light off on his way out and settles in the armchair for the night. He is completely at a loss about what to do. This boy is going to ruin him. He needs to eliminate him from his life.

After several minutes, he jumps up and grabs his gun. He attaches the silencer on it. He walks into the bedroom with sure steps and presses the gun to the sleeping boy’s temple. A few moments pass. The gun slips a little and Derek realizes the boy's skin is wet, from sweat or tears.

Derek jerks from his stupor and comes to himself, gasping. The arm holding the gun falls from Stiles’ head next to Derek’s body, hanging limply and harmlessly. He goes back to the living room.

***

In the morning, the sun shines bright and yellow into Derek’s apartment, revealing chipped wallpaper and old furniture. He proceeds with his routine as usual. Plant, calisthenics, shower, milk.

When Stiles gets up, he looks terrible. He looks pale and exhausted, and his hair is a mess. He sits at the kitchen table. Derek stands determinedly in front of the boy.

“You sleep well?”

Stiles nods.

“Good.” Derek pauses a little. “After breakfast you gotta take off.”

Stiles just looks at him with disbelief. “Where to?” But it's not Derek's problem. Derek doesn't care. He should've thrown the boy out last night. The boy makes him stupid and careless.

“Not my problem.” Derek goes into the living room and starts cleaning his guns.

Stiles stares at the milk cartons. He is desperate. He has nowhere to go. Plus, he’s in danger. Derek is his only hope.

His eyes fall on the receipt from the store; Stiles grabs it, gets up, goes into the room where Derek is and shoves it under his face. “Read it,” he demands.

Derek picks up the receipt and stares at it. Stiles states the obvious. “You don't know how to read.”

Derek starts fidgeting. “Um, I’m learning, but I've had a lot of work lately... so I'm a little behind. What's it say?”

Stiles doesn’t reply. Instead, he says, “I've decided what to do with my life. I wanna be a cleaner.”

Derek gets angry. He let the boy sway him again. “You wanna be a cleaner. Here.” He pushes one of his guns towards Stiles. He is upset. “Take it. It's a good-bye gift. Go clean, but not with me. I work alone. Understand? Alone.”

Stiles clutches the back of the chair in front of which he’s standing. He juts his chin towards Derek, struggling with tears. But Derek won't look at him. “Bonnie and Clyde didn't work alone. Thelma and Louise didn't work alone. They were the best.”

Derek sighs heavily. Why can't Stiles understand? “Stiles, why are you doing this to me? I've been nothing but nice to you. I saved your life yesterday, right outside the door. You're... so young. You need... good things. I'm not good. I helped you enough. I saved your life.”

But Stiles ploughs on. “Right. Now you're responsible for it. If you saved my life, you must've saved it for a good reason. If you throw me out now, it's like you never opened your door... like you let me die right there in front of it. But you did open it. So… If you don't help me, I'll die tonight. I can feel it. I don't wanna die tonight. Why did you open the door just to kick me out now? It's stupid. Plus, I would be an excellent cleaner. Better than you, even.”

Derek is completely mesmerized. The boy is bewitching. But, he shakes himself off. Even though it would be good for the boy to know how to protect himself, and even though if he takes the boy to the police he would be taking him directly to his executioners, Derek still refuses to cave. “Stiles… You're just a boy. Don't take it badly, but I don't think you could do it. I'm sorry.”

Stiles watches him for a few moments in silence, and then he grabs the gun from the table so suddenly that Derek doesn't manage to move a muscle and starts shooting randomly at the pigeons outside their window. His hand is sure and the fingers gripping the gun long and firm. When he finishes, he slams the gun back on the table. “How's that?”

Derek is petrified with shock. He recovers quickly. “Don't you ever do that again or I'll break your head! You got that?”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees quickly.

“I don't work like that. It's not professional. There're rules.”

“Okay.”

Derek shouts. “And stop saying okay all the time, okay!”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Derek stands up. “Now help me pack, we have to leave from here.”

***


	3. Chapter 3

Packing is too strong a term where Derek and Stiles are concerned. The biggest bag Derek owns is his weapon bag; his other, smaller bag contains exactly three shirts and one pair of pants. There’s also a violin case where Derek keeps his rifle. Stiles doesn’t want to get back to his apartment for some of his clothes and stuff. Derek offers to grab them for him, but Stiles doesn’t let him. All he has is clothes on his back, and Derek.

So they go in search of a new place to stay, Stiles clutching Derek’s plant in his arms and nothing else.

They go to Hotel National. The receptionist is an older man with a balding, grey head. He suspiciously eyes the violin case. “You expect to use that in this hotel?”

Stiles gets a little defensive. “Mister, I have to use it because I have an audition at Julliard next month and I have to practice.” He can't see Derek's expression behind the shades, but he knows that he's barely keeping himself from grinning.

The receptionist caves in and even smiles at Stiles. “Okay, but not after 10:00.”

“I promise,” Stiles says.

“All right. I'll put you at the end of the hall... so that you don't disturb anyone.”

The receptionist slides the forms to Derek. “Fill those out, please.”

Derek just looks at the papers for a second. Then Stiles turns his big eyes to Derek and bats his long eyelashes at him. “Oh. Uncle, can I please fill them out? You know how I like to check in to hotels.”

Derek stiffens, but he nods at him, half grateful and half pissed. He does not look like Stiles’ uncle. But Stiles just grabs the room key and dashes off. “Thanks! I'll bring these back in a minute.”

The receptionist yells after him. “Fourth floor!”

Then his eyes return to Derek. “You're lucky to have a nephew that's interested in things. I have a kid, seventeen, does nothing all day long.”

Derek doesn’t react. “Can I leave my plant here while I take my stuff upstairs?”

“Of course.”

 

Derek grabs his bags and goes in search of their room. Number 410. There he finds Stiles still filling out the forms. Derek starts checking the room, looking behind the doors and furniture, closing the windows, pulling the curtains. He hears Stiles’ voice.

“I'm putting in a name of a boy in my class who makes me sick. If things get hot, he'll take the heat. There. Finished.”

Derek sits down.

Stiles comes to his chair and kneels in front of Derek with ease, crossing his arms over Derek’s knees like he's done it a million times, comfortable and free. Derek sighs, but he doesn't chase him away. “Derek, I want you to teach me how to be like you. I want to be strong and smart like you.”

Derek grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to teach Stiles. But he doesn’t know if he has the strength or power to refuse him. “Stiles…” The boy leans his head against Derek's thigh and Derek stares at his pale neck and a shoulder peaking under his shirt. 

Stiles keeps talking, unaware of Derek's problems. “I know I'm not strong enough yet... but I could learn the basics, the theory. What do you think? Just the theory. I need this, Derek. I need time to get my head together.” He grips Derek's leg with his fingers, putting his trust, his entire life in the hands of a hit man. Derek doesn't know what to do with that. The boy is smarter than him. 

Derek sighs in resignation. “Yeah, and I need... a drink.” That’s all he says. All he can think of. 

Stiles smiles at that and jumps on his feet. “Don't move. I'll go get you one.”

***

 

Derek is at Guido’s again. He’s always glad to see Tony. They click their glasses.

“Salut,” Derek cheers.

There’s a bag next to the table where they’re sitting, the bag Derek came for.

Tony smiles at him and gestures towards the bag. “When you told me to get this baby out for you... I thought my hearing was going. I say to myself, Derek's a pro. Nobody uses that except beginners.”

Derek smiles back at him. “I like to stay in shape.”

“Sure. Always stay on top of it. It's like me. I gotta know where everything is all the time. I never leave this place, except to go from here to there. Change ain't good, Derek. You know?”

Derek nods. He nods, but Tony knows something's changed. He sees it clearly. Tony's never seen Derek smile before. But still, Tony grabs the bag and puts it on the table between them. “Check it. Make sure it's the right thing.”

“I trust you,” Derek says, but he opens the bag. The rifle lies there, brand new and shiny.

“One thing's got nothing to do with the other. Remember that,” Tony says.

“I will.”

***

Derek and Stiles are in the middle of the roof of a building overlooking Central Park. They’re both squatting, hidden behind a brick wall. Derek is assembling the rifle he got for Stiles.

“The rifle is the first weapon you learn how to use... because it lets you keep your distance from the client. The closer you get to being a pro... the closer you can get to the client. The knife, for example, is the last thing you learn. Okay?”

Stiles nods. “Okay.”

Derek approaches the edge of the building. “Position.”

Stiles goes after him and spreads a blanket over the concrete floor. They lie down on their stomachs, the rifle between them. Stiles clicks the lid over the lens of the scope open.

Derek shuts it back down. “Never take it off until the last minute. It reflects light. They can see you coming from a mile away. And always dress down. Never brighter than the floor, okay?”

Stiles nods in fascination. “Okay.”

“Let's practice now. It's the best way to learn.”

Stiles positions behind the rifle and grabs it. “Who should I hit?”

Derek takes a little binocular from his pocket and brings it to his eyes. “Whoever.”

Stiles looks through the scope and sees some children playing in the park. He looks further. “No women, no kids. Right?”

“Right.”

Then he spots a perfect target. An older, chubby guy is jogging in an orange tracksuit surrounded by five bodyguards in suits panting after him.

“Jogger in the yellow and orange?” he asks Derek, still looking through the scope.

Derek’s head leans on his, almost touching, the rifle between them, and he starts instructing Stiles in soft murmurs. Stiles almost gets distracted by Derek's closeness and his warm breath fanning across his ear, but after a few disconcerting seconds, he realizes it has a grounding effect on him. “All right. Keep calm. Don't take your eyes off him. Breathe easy. Watch his movement. Pretend you're running with him. Try to feel his next movement. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Now.”

Stiles fires a shot. He hits the target in the stomach. The guy falls down, his guards pulling out their guns and looking frantically around them. The guy shouts. “I'm all right! I'm fine!”

Stiles grins. “Not bad, huh? Can we try with real bullets now?” He can tell that Derek is impressed.

But Derek gets up. “Not today. Let's pack up.”

***

They settle into a routine. At the hotel, Derek teaches Stiles about different guns and rifles, how to clean and assemble them. When they finish with that, Stiles washes their clothes, Derek’s three shirts and Stiles’ two which they bought in a local secondhand store; he also cleans up and does the shopping. He tries to fix them decent meals on a hotplate. In the morning, they work out together; well, Stiles at least tries to do the same as Derek.

After a few weeks, Stiles is exhausted. He is sick of all the milk, too. He doesn’t get why they have to drink so much milk, but when he tries to politely refuse the glass Derek shoves under his nose one day, Derek just grumbles, “No discussion”, and waits until Stiles drinks the entire thing.

Stiles still sleeps on the bed and Derek sleeps on the armchair in the corner. The plant spends its days on the windowsill.

 

Stiles also teaches Derek how to read and write. They bought a book about Socrates in a bookstore around the corner and Stiles dictates Derek from it every day. Stiles is bored out of his mind with Socrates, but Derek is a meticulous learner and Stiles finds it adorable that he bites his tongue in concentration when he writes. Stiles spends the time looking more at Derek than at the book. When Derek notices, he always blushes under the attention.

“Derek, all we do is work. We need a break. Let's play a game,” he tells Derek one day.

“What kind of game?”

“I have this great game. It makes you think and helps your memory. It's exactly what you need.”

Derek agrees.

Stiles jumps on his feet, excited and happy, twirling around the room a few times. He goes to his bedroom, opens their closet and finds it depressingly empty. But then he grabs the sheets and flowery pillowcases, and starts wrapping himself up.

“Like a virrr-gin,” Stiles sings, swaying his hips when he returns to the living room. “Touched for the very first tiiiiime! Like a virrrr-gin, when your heart beats, next to mine, ho-o-o-o-o-oh... Who is it, Derek, who is it?” he asks excitedly.

Derek just looks at him with blank expression.

Stiles flaps his arms, feigning disappointment, but really, how can he not know Madonna, she’s Italian. But Derek just shakes his head. “I don't know. Non lo so.”

Next, Stiles tries to pout and purr seductively. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday, Mr. President…”

He gets another “non lo so” from Derek for his efforts, but the man is at least smiling at this point. Stiles counts it as victory even though Derek looks a little uncomfortable since Stiles is almost naked  under the  sheet.

Derek thinks Stiles is ridiculous. He also thinks he’s funny.

Stiles thinks he should try with a guy this time. He puts Derek’s pants on and Derek’s white shirt and draws some moustache with a marker. He takes a broomstick as a cane. He does Charlie Chaplin’s funny walk and points at his moustache. Derek looks more comfortable now when Stiles isn’t impersonating ladies, and he seems very close to guessing, but he fails once again.

Next, Stiles is still in Derek’s big clothes, but he wipes off the moustache and puts a hat on. He starts dancing and singing. “I'm singing in the rain, just singing in the rain, what a beaut…”

Derek lights up like a Christmas tree. “Gene Kelly?”

Stiles is ecstatic. “Oh my god, yes! Your turn now.”

Derek freezes and looks at him with wide eyes. He didn’t know he was expected to participate. But, he relents. At this point, Stiles thinks there isn’t anything in the world Derek wouldn’t do for him.

Derek does John Wayne with his walk and his squint and gets a little upset when Stiles doesn’t guess it. Stiles is quick to comfort him. “I was just about to say that. I swear. It's amazing. Derek, really brilliant. Amazing.”

Derek smiles.

***

That evening, Derek cleans his plant and Stiles watches him from the kitchen table.

“You love your plant, don't you?”

Derek keeps gently wiping the dust off its green leaves. “It's my best friend. Always happy. No questions. It's like me, you see. No roots.” Derek lifts the pot and smiles. “See?”

“Am I not your best friend now?” Stiles asks and sees the redness spreading across Derek's neck. “I mean. I could be. I don't have roots, too.”

Derek's speechless, but Stiles isn't offended. He knows how hard such questions are for Derek. Instead, he says, “If you really love it, you should plant it in a park so it can have roots.”

Derek nods his head in silence.

Stiles continues. “You should be watering me if you want me to grow.”

Derek's clearly decided he's had enough of Stiles' teasing because he jumps up and grabs his water sprinkler. “You're right!”, he shouts, his face open and smiling. Then he chases after screaming Stiles, spraying water all over him. Stiles flies into the bathroom and turns the shower on. When Derek comes in, he douses him in cold water. They both laugh like children, completely wet and exhausted.

***


	4. Chapter 4

This time, Derek brings Stiles to Guido’s with him, but he leaves him waiting outside. Derek can see him through the glass door, though. Stiles waves at him from time to time, and makes funny faces.

Derek doesn’t want Tony to know about Stiles yet.

“It's been a long time, Derek. I missed you,” Tony says when he sits across from Derek. “And you missed some nice jobs too.”

Derek bows down his head. “I’ve been training.”

“Training's good, but don't overdo it. Training doesn't pay as good as working, Derek.”

Derek lifts his head and looks at the man across him with big, vulnerable eyes, and addresses him by his nickname for the first time, since he's never allowed such familiarity to himself before. “Tony...”, he speaks quietly. “All the money I make, that you keep for me…”

Deaton interrupts him. “You need some money?”

Derek feels strange. He’s never asked about this before; he feels like he’s treading an unfamiliar territory. But, he continues. “Just curious. I've been working a long time... and I haven't done anything with my money. I thought maybe someday I could use it.”

Deaton’s shoulders drop. He says knowingly. “You met a woman.”

Derek shakes his head, but Deaton continues. “You gotta be careful with women. Remember when you arrived in this country? When I took you in, you were still wet behind the fucking ears... and, already, you were in deep shit because of a woman. Don't forget that, Derek.”

“I wish I could sometimes,” Derek whispers. He looks at his friend again, begging him to understand. “You know, about my money… Maybe I could give... a little... to someone. You know, to help out.”

“It's your money. I'm just holding it for you, like a bank. Except better than a bank because banks always get knocked off. No one knocks off old Tony. Besides, with a bank... there's always tons of forms and all that shit. But old Tony, nothing to read, nothing to write. It's all in his head.”

Derek doesn’t lift his eyes from the table. “I know how to read now.”

Deaton observes him in silence for a moment. “That's good, Derek. Your money's here. Whenever you want it, you just ask me.” He pulls out some rolled up money from his back pocket. “Here's a grand.”

But Derek leans away from the table and shakes his head. “It's okay. I don't need it.”

Deaton presses. “Come on. Take it. Have some fun. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” With hesitation and for the first time, Derek takes his money and puts it in his pocket.

“All right. Now let's talk business. Don't move. I'll go get the file.” Deaton gets up. “Manolo, a glass of milk for my friend Derek here.”

 

Through the door, Derek sees Stiles taking a cigarette from a stranger and loses his mind. He storms out, grabs Stiles by the arm and drags him aside.

“Drop it.” He waits until Stiles drops the cigarette.

“No smoking.” He leans even further towards the boy. “Listen, Stiles, you gotta be careful. You can't just speak to any guy off the street.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek, get a grip. What's the big fucking deal?”

But Derek is dead serious. “I want you to stop cursing. You can't talk to people like that all the time. I want you to make an effort to talk nice.”

Stiles looks at Derek’s face. He thinks Derek is beautiful. “Okay.”

“And I want you to stop smoking. It will kill you.”

“Okay.”

Derek looks at the stranger. “And stay away from him. He looks like a weirdo.”

“Okay.”

“I'll be out in five minutes. Stand where I can see you.”

“Okay.” Stiles will do anything for Derek, too.

***

The evening is quiet and peaceful, but Stiles feels weird, though. Restless. He paces around the room, acutely aware of Derek's presence and wanting something from him. 

He plops down onto the bed and puts his hand over the exposed skin of his belly.

“Derek, I think I'm kinda falling in love with you.”

He hears Derek choke on his milk. It splashes all over the man once again. Stiles would laugh if the situation wasn't dead serious.

“It's the first time for me, you know.”

Derek keeps cleaning himself with paper napkins. “How do you know it's love if you've never been in love before?”, he asks.

But Stiles knows it. For a while now. “Cause I feel it.”

“Where?”, Derek wants to know.

Stiles caresses his belly. “In my stomach. It's all warm. I always had a knot there, and now it's gone.”

Derek is mad. He is so mad. “Stiles, I'm glad you don't have a stomachache anymore. I don't think it means anything. I'm late for work. I hate being late for work.” Derek puts on his jacket, grabs his bag and flees. Outside the room, he has to stop. He leans against the wall a little. He can’t gather his senses, but he pushes himself off the wall and heads down. He storms by the receptionist ignoring his ‘How's the practicing going?’ As he disappears into the New York crowd, he can feel Stiles’ eyes following him from their window.

 

Stiles comes down a little later himself.

“How are we today, young man?” The receptionist smiles at him.

Stiles is not in the mood. He's so upset with Derek. “A little sick of practicing.”

“I understand. But you're doing all right. I haven't received any complaints,” the older man says.

Stiles feels this urge to see how far he can push. “I put a cloth over the strings to lessen the noise.”

But the man is completely clueless. He smiles benevolently at Stiles. “That's very smart.”

Stiles leans over the desk a little. “Not everyone loves music.”

“I know.” The man is still smiling, but then he grows serious and asks: “What does your uncle exactly do?”

“He's a composer,” Stiles lies shamelessly.

“That's wonderful,” the man smiles, but Stiles wants to wipe that smile off his face. He doesn’t know what has gotten into him. He misses Derek.

“Except he's not really my uncle.” Stiles makes a dramatic pause. “He’s my lover.”

The man’s jaw drops. Stiles raises his hand a little, and waves at the stunned man. “Ta, ta.” He turns around and leaves after that.

***

Once he’s outside, he doesn’t know where to go. His legs take him unconsciously towards his old neighborhood.

Stiles decides to climb up to his apartment. There’s a police officer on his floor, but he’s distracted by a video game on his phone. There’s yellow police tape across the entrance. Stiles crawls underneath it.

The place is in chaos. Stiles walks over the broken furniture, torn clothes and scattered toys. The walls are full of bullet holes. He picks up Scott’s old teddy bear. When he sees the bloodstains in the hallway, he starts crying. But he grits his teeth and gathers a few shirts and his jeans and tosses them into his old backpack. He remembers where his father kept his money for 'rainy days', but Stiles always knew that the expression meant after his father’s death. The money was for them, for the kids. He picks one of the wooden floorboards in the hall up and takes the plastic bag he finds there out. There’s some money in there. Stiles thinks it’s a lot. He pushes the bag into his backpack, too.

But then, Stiles hears voices and heavy footsteps approaching the apartment. He hides in the pantry.

It’s the police. Two police officers and a third, very familiar voice. Deucalion. Stiles feels his limbs going numb. One of the officers says: “We know you're a busy man. We'll make this short. If you'll just take us step-by-step through exactly what happened.”

Deucalion is very impatient and pissed. He spreads his arms when he enters Stiles’ father’s room. “The guy was here. He went for his gun. Bang, we shot him.”

“Where exactly were the kids?” the other officer asks.

Deucalion shouts. “I don't know! They should have been at school, don't you think?”

At his raised voice, Stiles starts to tremble.

The officers remain calm. “Your statement said you were the first man in. Didn't you see any kids? The door was broken. What happened? Did you follow the procedure?”

Deucalion approaches them and says very quietly, his voice filled with rage. “I lost a good man here. What the fuck do you want with me?” he spits at them.

“Cooperation.”

Deucalion roars again. “I haven't got _time_ for this Mickey Mouse _bullshit_! You want cooperation? Come up in my office, room 4602. Kids should be at school!” He storms off, tearing up the yellow tape on his way out.

 

As soon as they all leave, Stiles gathers his wits and flies downstairs. He sees the police enter a black Mercedes. He hails a cab. “Follow that black car!”

The taxi driver, a cute young guy with dreadlocks, turns around and jokes. “You want me to blast the music and go through the lights?”

Stiles wants to go right now. He’s pumped with adrenaline. He’s just seen Deucalion leave in a black car and he doesn’t want to lose him, to miss the opportunity. He pushes some money at the driver. “No, drive slowly. Take the hundred bucks, and shut the fuck up.” That wipes the smirk off the driver's face. 

Stiles isn’t shocked when the taxi takes him to Department of Justice, Centre Street 1, New York office. He sees Deucalion disappear inside.

He decides he’s done enough investigative work for the day and decides to get back home.

***

He watches TV and waits for Derek to come back from work. When he does, the man puts a gift bag in front of Stiles. But Stiles doesn't want a gift. He ignores Derek, refusing to look at him.

“It's for you. A present.”

Stiles keeps ignoring him. He’s still upset with him from before. But Derek keeps fussing around him, moving before Stiles and talking. “Do you want me to open it? I'll open it.” He spreads a beautiful dark magenta shirt in front of Stiles. “How do you like it? Nice? Stiles, please. I-- I'm sorry. Please.”

Stiles looks at the shirt and reaches out to touch it then. The material feels incredibly soft. Expensive. He's still holding the shirt when he lifts his eyes to look at Derek.

But then, there’s a knock on their door. Derek hears the receptionist’s voice.

“Mr. McGuffin?” 

Derek almost forgot their fake surname.

“Can I have a word with you?”

When Derek opens the door, there’s the receptionist and two muscled guys behind him, obviously brought as reinforcement. They all look extremely upset.

They promptly kick Derek and Stiles out of the hotel, effective immediately.

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something happens in this chapter that looks like an attempted suicide, or a game of Russian roulette. But both Derek and Stiles know Derek would never allow for that to happen. I'm just not sure if it's clear. Anyway, consider yourselves warned:)

They move to another, similar hotel; same cheap furniture, crappy wallpaper and stained carpets. But the linen seems clean.

When Stiles settles in front of the TV, Derek finally goes to the bathroom. His last job... was not so good. He's happy that Stiles didn't see his bleeding arm.  The blood has almost dried up by now and he has trouble taking his clothes off. He washes and then stitches the wound himself using the bathroom mirror to see what he’s doing. He doesn't make a sound. He doesn't want Stiles to notice. He takes a brief shower to wash away the sweat.

When he gets out, he finds Stiles waiting for him in the kitchen. When Derek sits, Stiles throws a stack of money onto the table. Derek frowns. "What have you done?"

"Here. It's for a contract. Thirty grand, right? His name is Deucalion, and he's in room 4602... in the D.E.A. building, 26 Federal Plaza."

Derek shakes his head. "I'm not taking it. What have you done? Where did you get the money?"

"Why not?"

"Stiles--"

"It's... it's mine. My father's. I went back today."

Derek's breathing heavily. His wound hurts. "You shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have gone alone. It's dangerous. And I'm not taking your money."

"Well. Will you rent me your gear for the day then?"

Derek is very tired. "I never lend out my gear. But..." Derek reaches into his bag and takes out a gun. "You still have your gun. Use it. Just do me a favor. Don't shoot out the window, okay."

Stiles is on the verge of crying. Derek is mocking him. He knows full well Stiles can't do it with the stupid gun. "Why are you so mean to me? Killing people you don't give a shit about... but you won't get the bastard that killed my whole family?"

"Revenge is not good once you're done, Stiles. Believe. It's better to forget."

Stiles raises his voice. "To forget? After I've seen the outline of my brother's body on the floor... you expect me to forget? I want to kill those sons of bitches. Blow their fucking heads off."

Derek tries to make him understand. He doesn't want Stiles to kill anyone, or he to kill anyone for Stiles. He wants him innocent. "Nothing's the same after you've killed someone. Your life is changed forever. You have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life."

Tears are tracking down Stiles’ face. "I don't give a shit about sleeping, Derek. I want love... or death. That's it. I want death. Everything else is irrelevant. You won't give me anything."

Derek snorts. "Get off my case, Stiles. I'm tired of your games."

Stiles looks beyond hurt. "There's this really great game, Derek. Makes people nicer. Starts them thinking. The kind of game you love." Stiles takes the gun and puts four bullets into the chamber and rolls it. "Fire one. If I win... you keep me with you... for life."

"And if you lose?"

"Go shopping alone, like before."

"You're gonna lose, Stiles. There's a round in the chamber. I heard it."

"So what? What's it to you if I end up with a bullet in the head?"

Derek swallows and keeps his face expressionless. He won't do it. He won't do it. "Nothing." He's coiled tauter than a spring. 

Stiles can’t believe it. His heart is torn to pieces. "I hope you're not lying, Derek. I really hope that deep down inside there's no love in you. Because if there is... just a little bit of love in there for me... I think that in a few minutes you'll regret you never said anything." Stiles presses the barrel of the gun against his temple and looks at Derek. "I love you, Derek," Stiles says and pulls the trigger.

Lightening fast, Derek manages to grab his wrist. The bullet knocks off the lamp and gets stuck into the painting on the wall.

Stiles clutches Scott’s teddy bear. "I win," he says weakly, but he doesn’t seem happy about it.

Derek is still trying to regain his breathing. He's drenched in sweat. Stiles seems to always have his way with him.

 

That night, Derek puts his armchair next to the bed where Stiles is lying, refusing to leave him. Stiles cries for a while. "Come to bed with me."

Derek shakes his head.

"Just a little, just lie next to me," Stiles pleads.

"No," Derek says, but he takes Stiles' hand. He sleeps like that, his hand curled around Stiles' fingers, and doesn't let go.

***

Tony holds a glass of whiskey in his hand and looks at Derek and Stiles sitting across him at Guido’s.

Derek is nervous like hell and he starts talking. "I took a hit. I need a hand now. I know he's young, but he learns fast. Kids need to be shaped into something, right?"

Tony looks slightly upset. "Alright. I know. I taught you that. But ain't there an age limit?"

Stiles has never heard Derek lie so fast. "He's eighteen."

"Oh, really?" Tony looks like he’s barely managing not to laugh in their faces.

Derek tries to soften him up. "How about something to drink, Tony?"

"Yeah, sure. Manolo, a glass of milk for my friend Derek here."

Stiles speaks for the first time. He looks at Deaton’s large forearm resting against the table. "Nice tattoo."

Deaton laughs. "Do you have family, kiddo?"

Derek stiffens next to Stiles, but Stiles just smirks and nods, pointing his thumb at Derek. 

A flash of surprise sweeps over Tony's face, but he covers it up quickly. "Manolo. Make that two glasses."

He’s still shaking his head in disapproval, but the smile never leaves his lips.

***

Derek and Stiles start cleaning together from then on. 

They have a system going on. They stand on opposite sides of the door they need to break into and Derek sticks a piece of gum onto the peephole. The good old gum trick. He traces his fingers down the doorframe. "First you find out where the chain is. You can't see it, but you can feel it. Here. I'll ring, you start talking."

"What do I say?"

"Whatever you want."

Derek rings the bell and they hear a male voice from the inside. "Yes?"

Stiles starts talking. "Hi. It's Tommy."

The man from the inside still doesn’t open the door. "I'm sorry. You must have the wrong door, kid. I don't know any Tommy. Move back a little. I can't see anything."

"The light's out. It's all dark out here. Mister, I'm scared."

They hear shuffling. "Okay."

As soon as the guy opens the door, Derek cuts the chain with a bolt cutter. The guy manages a brief squeak before Derek sticks the barrel of his gun down the dude’s mouth. "Open up. If it leaves your mouth, I'll pull the trigger, _capisce_?"

They search the apartment. In the living room, there’s enough drug to poison half of New York. Stiles goes crazy when he sees it. "Do you sell this to children, fucker? Their mothers?"

Derek pushes the guy against a window. "Here's okay."

Derek turns to Stiles. "Go ahead. Your turn." Stiles starts assembling his gun and puts the silencer on. The guy is shaking in his corner, looking at the kid he didn’t even pay enough attention to. He starts waving his arms, trying to catch Derek’s eye. "Sir? Sir, it's not my dope. Sir, look I…"

Stiles lifts his gun. "A little left, please." The guy moves to the left. Stiles fires. The guy starts screaming. Derek prompts Stiles. "Now, the security shot."

Stiles aims, Derek corrects him. "No, the second goes higher on the chest. Aim for the heart and lungs. There. Right there.You see? The first shot takes him out of order. The second finishes him off."

Stiles fires the second shot and the guy is still screaming. Finally, he seems to realize they aren’t real bullets. "What are you fucking doing?" the guy whines.

But Derek pays him no attention, continuing his tutorial. "Never in the face. If they can't recognize the client, you don't get paid. You could take out anybody and said you did the job. Got it?"

Stiles nods. "Got it. Never in the face."

"Now you can put the tools away," Derek instructs. Derek turns around and shoots the guy for real this time. "You see, when you use the silencer a lot... you have to put a piece of cloth here... because it gets very hot and could burn you or the inside of the case. A damp, black cloth is the best."

Stiles takes a bottle of alcohol and starts spilling it over the drugs, burning it.

"What are you doing?" Derek asks.

"We said no women, no kids. Who do you think this is gonna kill, junkies and monkeys? Now it's clean."

Derek grabs Stiles’ hand. "Let’s get out of here."

***

They treat themselves to a nice dinner that night. Derek takes him out to a fancy restaurant. Stiles sips on his wine. "I thought we don't have the right to drink."

"I know, but we're making an exception for your first time," Derek says.

"Well, if we're making exceptions for a job well-done... how about a kiss, like in the movies?"

Derek sits up in alarm. He looks around the restaurant. "No, Stiles.’’

Stiles whispers ‘"Yes" back and leans across their table.

"What you doing?" Derek starts panicking.

"I'm going to kiss you."

"Stiles, stop, please. Everyone is watching us."

Stiles would kiss him, too, but the waiter arrives with their order then. Derek relaxes, until Stiles takes off his shoe and shoves his foot under Derek's pants. Thank god they're too tight to allow Stiles' foot to climb further than half his shin.

"You don't believe me, do you?", Stiles continues.

"How's that?"

"When I say I'm in love with you."

"Stiles, please drop it. Just change the subject, okay?"

Stiles decides he’s tortured him enough. "Okay. Sorry. So, how old were you when you made your first hit?"

"Nineteen."

Stiles lifts his champagne glass and winks at him. "Beat you." He drains his glass and starts giggling. Derek looks like he’s very sorry he’s allowed him to drink.

***

Tomorrow, Derek goes to Deaton. The man is having his hair cut, right there in the middle of the restaurant. "Mario, go back to the barbershop. We'll finish later. Derek, what's up? All done already?"

Derek stands next to the bar and looks at the porcelain pigs standing in formation there as decoration. He squeezes a porcelain pig’s nose. "Nicer than people, eh?"

"I told you that. You got a problem? Get the chair. Sit down," Deaton offers.

Derek hesitates to speak. "I was thinking. If something happens to me someday…"

"Hey, Derek, nothing's gonna happen to you. You're indestructible. Bullets slide off you. You play with 'em."

But Derek goes on. "Tony, I thought about my money. You remember the boy who came here the other day?" Derek pauses. "His name is Stiles. If anything happens to me... I'd like you... to give him... my money."

"You can count on me, Derek."

"Thank you, Tony."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex happens, even though Stiles is still a minor.

That evening, when Derek returns from his visit to Tony, Stiles is standing next to the window and he looks at him curiously as soon as he enters. He sees resolve in Derek’s eyes; the man approaches him in long strides and just hugs him, for the first time ever.

Stiles melts into him instantly, sighing in relief. "Oh, Derek, Derek..." Stiles hugs him right back and kisses his cheek and neck. "I love you." Derek nods against his head. Stiles smiles. He feels Derek's body shaking a little against his own. "It’s okay, it’s okay. We don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to kiss me. Just… no more sleeping in the armchair, okay?"

Stiles guides him to the bed and pushes him down, Derek’s body stiff as a stick. He covers him with the blanket and takes his arm and puts it around his waist. "You know, a boy's first time is very important. It determines the rest of his life sexually. I read that once in one of my brother's magazines. My friends told me they hated their first experience. That's because they didn't love the guys. They just did it to show off. Afterwards, they started liking it. Will I like it the first time?"

Derek sighs. "Stiles, no."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"You love someone else?"

"No. I mean… There was someone a long time ago. Before I came to the States. Her father didn't want her to see me. She was from a very respectable family. Mine was... you know... not so respectable. Her dad went nuts every time she'd take off to see me. Even though we didn't do anything."

"She still snuck off to see you, right? See, nothing can stop love, Derek."

Derek keeps talking. "He killed her. For disobeying him. One shot through the head. They kept him in jail for two days, and they let him go free. They said it was an accident. So... one night I... waited for him. Five hundred feet with a lens. He also had an accident. The same night I took a boat and came here... to meet up with my father who was working for Tony. I was barely nineteen. Since then I've never left the city, and... I've never had another girlfriend. You see, Stiles... I wouldn't be a good lover."

"Is it because I’m a boy?"

Derek bristles at that. "No, Stiles… I like that you are a boy. I like… you."

"See, then there’s no problem. You can’t… not love anyone anymore because of what happened to you." Stiles turns around to face Derek. "Is it because my age?"

"A little," Derek says. "Stiles, since I met you... everything's been different. So I just need some time… to get used to it. And you need some time to grow up a little."

"I finished growing up, Derek. I just get older."

"For me it's the opposite. I'm old enough. I need time to grow up."

Stiles watches Derek's face while he stares at the ceiling. He'll never love anyone else in his life like he loves Derek. "Will you at least let me kiss you?"

Derek tenses, but after a few moments, he moves his face a little towards Stiles, offering it to him in silent consent. The inch feels like a victory. Stiles leans in, smiling, and brushes his lips against Derek's cheek, over the stubble and then over the hairless part above it. Derek's skin is so soft there, and when Derek gives him another inch, Stiles accidentally pecks him in the eye. They both chuckle then, and Derek closes his eyes. He takes Stiles into his arms, pulling his head under his chin, caressing his hair. "Sleep now, Stiles. My Stiles. Sleep now, baby. Don't think about it, don't think about anything."  

They let the night take over the reins after that, holding each other tight until the morning sun.

***

The day is warm and bright, the streets crowded as always in such great weather. Stiles has a paper bag with fruit and a box of pizza in his hands. He heads to the Department of Justice. He has to wait a little downstairs, but soon enough he passes the security check. He pushes the fruit and the pizza through the scanner. A security guy asks him where he’s going.

Stiles chirps. "Special delivery, room 4602."

To his shock, he sees Deucalion joking around with one of his agents right there, not fifteen meters away from him. He’s surprised to see him down at the lobby. The security guy pushes a form towards him. "Sign here."

When Stiles looks up, Deucalion is gone. Stiles tries not to panic. He passes the elevators and goes to the restroom to give Deucalion enough time to go to his office and to regroup a little. He puts the bag and the pizza on the radiator. He jumps when someone bangs the door shut. He didn't even hear anyone come in. He turns around.

Deucalion is standing next to the door.

Stiles freezes, but the man starts talking immediately.

"Special delivery, huh? Let me guess. Chinese? Thai, maybe?" He pops one of his pills and grins. "No, no... I've got it! _Italian_ food. Am I right?"

When Stiles remains quiet, the man leers at him. He comes close, too close. Stiles stares at the floor and tries to control his shivering. "What's your name, angel?’’

Stiles chokes out his name. He’s terrified.

"Delightful. Stiles, put the sack on the floor, darling."

Stiles puts the food on the floor.

"Good." Deucalion pulls the gun out of his holster. "Now I want you to tell me everything you know about Italian food. Don't leave anything out. And don't forget the name of the chef who fixed it for me."

"Nobody sent me. I do business for myself," Stiles says.

"So this is something... personal, is it?" 

Stiles starts crying.

"What filthy piece of shit… did I do now?" Deucalion wipes his hands over his face.

"You killed my father and my brothers," Stiles cries.

"Oooh. I'm sorry," the man lilts joyously. Then he leans towards Stiles, and smiles. "And what -- you wanna join them?" He is brutal.

"No," Stiles murmurs and shakes his head.

"It's always the same thing. It's when you start to become really afraid of death... that you learn to appreciate life. Do you like life, sweetheart?" He caresses Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles nods. "Yes."

"That's good. Because I take no pleasure... in taking a life... if it's from a person who doesn't care about it."

Deucalion starts dragging his gun down Stiles’ neck and chest.

But then, someone barges into the restroom. "Deuc, I've been looking all over for you. I checked upstairs… "

Deucalion turns around, clearly pissed. "What? I'm busy."

But the guy continues. "It's Ennis, man. He's dead."

Deucalion pales like a sheet. "What. _What_."

"Ennis was making a buy for us from the Chinaman. But they got nothing to do with it. They told me this _guy_ came from the outside. He was a pro. He was fast. He fucking came out of nowhere. Boom, shoots the Chinaman dead in two seconds. Then turns around, says something to Ennis like - No women, no kids. I think it was something personal. And then he blows his head off."

Deucalion closes his eyes. "Would you take him up to my office?" he says pointing at Stiles.

"All right. Jesus fucking Christ."

***

 

When Derek returns from the Chinaman job, he finds Stiles’ letter on the table. He goes mad when he reads it. He should have known that Stiles would never let it go. He should have known. He should have killed Deucalion as soon as Stiles had asked him. He should have done it even before that.  

_Derek, my love. I know where to find the guys who killed my family. Their boss is Deucalion. He's in the D.E.A. building, room 4602. I'm going to do them myself. If something goes wrong, I left you 30 grand on the table. It's for a contract. Ten grand ahead, right? I know I'll feel better after I do this. I love you._

Derek turns around and leaves immediately. He gets a taxi. When they arrive in front of the Department of Justice, he opens the door and looks at the driver. "Wait for me. I won't be long," and shoves a few hundred dollar bills at him. 

The driver shouts after him. "Hey, man! I can't park in front like this. It's a goddamn federal building!", but Derek is already gone.

 

He moves like a machine. He knocks the three security guards out before they manage to utter a word. He takes an elevator. He enters Deucalion’s office and shoots the two agents sitting there right away. His gun barely makes a sound.

Stiles jumps in his arms immediately. For a blissful moment, they’re in their own personal haven, Stiles clutching onto him and wiping his wet face on Derek's shirt. Derek carries him out. He doesn't say a word.

When they get down, the driver is mad. "Is that what you call ‘I won't be long’? I’ve been here for ten minutes."

"I did my best," Derek grumbles. "Avanti."

***

 

Back at their hotel, after calming down and resting for a while, Stiles tries on the shirt Derek bought for him. He comes out of the bedroom only in the shirt and his underwear.

"Do you like it?" he asks.

Derek is sitting in a chair. "Yes."

"So say it," Stiles demands.

Derek looks at him, like Stiles is the Sun. Just for that look alone, Stiles would follow him to the end of the world. "I like it."

Stiles stands in front of him. "Can I?"

When Derek nods, Stiles sits in his lap, straddling him. Derek's massive thighs make Stiles' legs look even leaner and smaller. Stiles loves it. He loves the size and the age difference. Derek is his; he wouldn't change a single thing about him. Stiles is so turned on, without Derek laying a single finger on him. Stiles hugs him around the neck and stands still for a moment. "Won't you hold me? Touch me?"

Slowly, Derek puts his arms on Stiles' back. "I’m gonna kiss you now, Derek. Don’t move."

Derek doesn’t move. Stiles kisses him, soft and dry at first, a few tentative pecks. Stiles likes the sound of them. Derek's eyes are hooded and just by that, Stiles knows he has all the consent he needs, even though Derek is motionless. The next time he leans in for a kiss, he licks Derek’s lips. Derek groans and fidgets on the chair, jostling Stiles closer in his lap. Stiles feels his erection through his underwear. Stiles laughs. "Now we know your gear works at least."

Derek blushes at that, he really fucking blushes, and if Stiles could love him more, he would. Derek hugs him even tighter, their bodies as close as they can be, and Stiles tips his head up a little and dives in for a real kiss. He’s watched movies, he knows how to do this. It turns out, even if it’s maybe bad, kissing still feels incredibly good. "Stiles..."

"What?"

"I-- I love you."

"I know, darling. I love you, too. I love you, Derek. So much," Stiles moves his hips a little, in small, aborted motions, rubbing his dick against Derek’s firm belly, pushing back against the bulge in Derek's pants, and kissing Derek all the while. When he comes, and he comes like a champion because it’s really been so long, and it’s Derek, come on, he hides a little by shoving his face in Derek’s neck.

Derek stands up, Stiles in his arms, like he weighs nothing, and goes over to their bed. He puts him down and goes for Stiles’ dirty underwear immediately. Stiles thinks he might die, but he allows for it. Derek takes it off and cleans Stiles with it.

"So beautiful," he whispers. He looks at Stiles' soft pubic hair, fuzzy against his young skin. "You're so beautiful, Stiles." He unbuttons Stiles’ shirt and traces gently with his fingers across his chest. He kisses him everywhere and Stiles feels like he’s having an out of body experience.

When Derek takes his own clothes off, he lies next to Stiles and grabs his own hard dick in his hand. Stiles turns on his side and watches in fascination. Derek’s body is gorgeous. His dick is beautiful, too. He comes all over Stiles’ soft belly.

"I’m sorry…", he says.

"What for?" Stiles asks.

Derek gestures at the ropes of come on Stiles’ body. He picks up his shirt and cleans Stiles once again.

Stiles chuckles. "Hug me, you fool."

They hold each other, completely naked. "Derek, have you ever imagined a different life?", Stiles asks him softly.

Derek strokes him across his back in soothing motions. Stiles thinks he might melt. "No."

"Don’t we have enough money to escape? Go live somewhere far, far away from everything? Would you like that?"

Derek squeezes him tightly. "You have to finish school."

"I can go to school in Bulgaria. They have schools in Bulgaria. Or Ivory Coast. Or Mexico."

"They do." Derek cradles Stiles’ head in his hands and kisses him for a long time.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Guido’s is full of party balloons and little children with party hats when Deucalion and his gorillas barge in.  

Deaton takes off his party hat. "Manolo, take the kids upstairs."

Deucalion waltzes towards Deaton’s table, sits down and puts a gun in front of him.

"I have a lot of respect for your business, Tony. When you've done jobs for us in the past... we've always been satisfied. That's exactly why today is going to be very hard for me. I hope you'll excuse my mood." He takes a photograph of one of the agents Derek shot and shows it to Deaton. "My man was killed right here on your turf." He bangs hard with his hand against the table. "The Chinks tell me that the _hit man_... was kind of the _Italian_ type. So we figured that Tony might know something."

Deaton tries to say something, but Deucalion doesn’t let him. His face is deformed with blind rage. "Wait. There's more. You're gonna love this. A few hours later, this kid, this skinny _boy_ , comes into my office... _armed to the teeth_ , with the firm intention of sending me to the morgue." He pauses. ''Do you know who came and got him right there in my building? The very same... _Italian hit man_." Deucalion clasps his fingers together and his nostrils spread wide. "I am _dying_ to meet him."

He leaves after that. His gorillas stay, though - and they break several bones in Tony's body.

***

Derek wakes up with a jolt. Stiles puts a hand on his shoulder. "Relax. Everything's fine. Sleep well?"

Derek relaxes back onto the pillow and pulls Stiles onto his chest. Stiles snuggles closer. Derek kisses his hair. "I never really sleep. Got one eye open always."

Stiles chuckles. "Yeah, I forgot. I never saw someone with one eye open snore so much."

"I snore?" Derek asks incredulously.

"Like a chainsaw," Stiles teases. "I'm gonna get some milk for breakfast. I won't be long."

"Don't forget the code when you come back," Derek reminds him.

"Two knocks, then one, and two knocks again. Right?"

"Right."

Derek flops back onto the bed, wiggling his toes. Beds aren’t that bad after all.

 

Stiles runs down the stairs and goes to the store. He gets bread and some cereal, strawberry jam and apples. And milk, of course. His arms are full and he’s still smiling when someone covers his mouth and drags him into a little nook on their floor’s hallway. Someone takes the groceries out of his arms.

There are at least fifteen men there, in NYPD ESU black uniforms, masks on their faces. One of the agents holds Stiles against his body, his gloved hand covering Stiles’ mouth.

Another one starts speaking. "From here on out, you don't make a sound. You answer my questions by nodding yes or shaking your head no. Is he alone?"

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to consider his options, if there's anything he could do. The man holding him is almost choking him and pushing something against his ribs. Stiles nods his head slowly.

"Is he expecting you?"

Another nod.

"Do you have keys to the apartment?"

Stiles hands them the keys. At this point, he’s pretty much sure that he’s pissed himself and that Derek and he are going to die very soon.

"Is there a code, a way of knocking, so he knows it's you?"

Stiles breathes in through his nose. His last chance to give Derek some heads up, even if it’s meager seconds only. He nods once again. Stiles reaches his hand and knocks on the wall. Three knocks, pause, two knocks, then one.

The agents nod and they assume their final position. One of them is still holding Stiles. Tears escape his sealed lids. The agent closest to the door knocks, three, two, one. They bang the door open.

First two agents enter, but the apartment seems empty. They signal to the rest of the team to come in. When they’re all inside, Derek, hanging from the ceiling above the front door, shuts them close and the carnage begins. Derek fires from two machine guns simultaneously. Two minutes later, all agents are dead and Derek has two bullet wounds, one in his arm and the other in his shoulder.

The four remaining agents, who stayed behind with Stiles, call Deucalion. "Alpha team. Men down. Men down!"

Deucalion laughs contemptuously. He’s standing in front of the hotel with more team members. "I fucking _told_ you." He turns to an agent. "Manny, bring me everyone."

"What do you mean, everyone?" They've already pulled much more resources than would be normal for this vague at best Deucalion case, god knows which one out of many. He's already heard that they're sending special investigators to deal with Deucalion's suspicious activities. The department is buzzing with the accusations of corruption, trafficking, murder, and special relations to the mafia.

But, until then... Deucalion roars. " _Everyone_!"

Eleven more NYPD vehicles arrive. The place is milling with police officers and agents. They secure the area and put yellow tape around the entire hotel entrance perimeter.

Upstairs, Derek knows he is fighting a losing game - there are just too many of them and the situation seems hopeless. He gets shot in the shoulder, but he pays no attention to it. When he finishes them off, he leaves his apartment for the first time since the operation began. He needs to rescue Stiles. If he falls into Deucalion's hands, he is dead. He crawls to the little nook where he knows are four more agents and Stiles and he waits around the corner.

When enough quiet goes by, he hears one of the agents tell the other: "Go take a look."

Derek is ready. When the guy peeks around the corner, Derek presses his shotgun against his forehead. "Don't move."

The guy freezes. 

"What's that?", the agent behind him asks.

"It's the guy. He's here. He's got a gun to my head."

"Let the boy go," is all Derek says.

"Take it easy, man! Okay, the boy's coming out."

Derek repeats. "Let the boy go."

The agent holding Stiles really does let him go then. Once free, Stiles turns around in anger and spits right on his mask. "You filthy fucker!"

When he reaches Derek, he allows himself to hug him briefly. But they don't have time for that. 

"Grab the axe off the wall. Over there. Go!" Derek instructs him. Stiles goes for the axe and Derek grabs the guy against whose head he was holding his gun. "You're coming with us." He uses him as a shield. His own fellow agents shoot him when Derek and Stiles reach their apartment.

They're inside, but Stiles realizes they're trapped. He starts panicking. "How are we gonna get outta here now?"

"Leave it to me. We're checking out." Derek takes the axe and starts demolishing the entrance of the ventilation shaft.

Stiles cries. "But it's not big enough for you. It's barely big enough for me."

"We said no discussion." Derek keeps working.

But Stiles can’t bear the thought of leaving Derek alone in this living hell. "No, I'm not letting… I'm not going! I won't go!"

Derek grabs him by the shoulders. "Listen to me. We have no chance together. But if I'm alone, I can do it. Trust me. I'm in good shape. I know I've got a lot of money with Tony. We'll take it and leave together, just the two of us. Go."

But Stiles keep shaking his head, refusing to move. Derek picks him up and puts him in the shaft. He is skinny enough to fit. But the boy won’t let go. He is sobbing and clutching Derek’s bloody shirt in his fingers. "You're saying that so I won't worry. I don't wanna lose you."

Derek hugs him one last time. "You're not gonna lose me. Stiles, listen. You've given me a taste for life. I wanna be happy, sleep in a bed, have roots. You'll never be alone again. Please, go now, baby. Go. Calm down. Go now. Go. See you at Tony's. I'm gonna clean them all. Tony's in an hour. I love you, Stiles."

"I love you, too, Derek."

Derek pushes him and Stiles finally lets go.

Five seconds later, a hand grenade is thrown into their apartment, the blast sending Stiles even faster down the shaft.

He thinks Derek is dead. No one could survive that. He closes his eyes and falls.

***

 

Stiles is sitting at Tony's, bawling his eyes out. He’s battered and dirty, holding the plant in his lap. Derek threw it down the shaft after him. Stiles still can’t believe he is alive. He isn’t happy about it at all.

Deaton doesn’t seem any better. His face is black and blue with bruises and his arm is in cast up to his shoulder. The man speaks slowly, clearly in pain. "Derek asked me to help you out... if something happened, and I think something happened. He put aside a little cash for you. So what I'm suggesting is that... seeing as how you're still so young... I should hold the money for you until you're older. Like a bank, you know, except... it's better than a bank 'cause banks always get knocked off. No one knocks off old Tony. But it's your money. In the meantime... all you gotta do is come here every once in awhile... and I'll dish it out so you can have a little fun. Here. Here's a hundred bucks to start."

Stiles cries even harder. "Can't I get a job instead?"

Deaton looks at him like he’s insane. "A job? What the hell can you do?"

"I can clean."

Deaton shouts. "I ain't got no work for a kid... so get it out of your fucking head! It's over! The game's over! Derek’s dead! You hear me? You need to get the fuck outta here! It's been five hours!''

He stops yelling when he sees that Stiles will pass out from crying. ''Come on. You think I ain't hurting too? But he's dead. You're gonna forget all this craziness and get your little ass back to school. Now take this money and get the hell outta here. Don't let me see your face till next month...'cause something tells me I'm about to lose my famous kind streak."

***

Stiles is sitting in Marguerite McAllister’s lovely office at the Spencer Schooling Wildwood and staring at her face. It reminds him of Sandy Cheeks from SpongeBob SquarePants.

"My parents... died... in a car accident four weeks ago. It was terrible."

Ms. McAllister smiles at him patronizingly. "Stiles, we didn't have the time to get to know one another when you first came here... but I want you to know I'm not the kind of woman who'd let down a child... whatever his situation, whatever his mistake. So I'm going to help you and do my best to welcome you here again. But on one condition: You have to stop lying to me, Stiles. I want you to take a chance... and trust me. Tell me what happened to you."

Stiles looks at her squarely.

"Alright. My family got shot down by D.E.A. officers... because of a drug problem. I left with the greatest guy on Earth. He was a hit man, the best in town, but he died this morning. If you don't help me, I'll be dead by tonight."

Ms. McAllister’s face really does look like Sandy's, especially when she’s angry. She dismisses him and sends him to his room, livid. 

***

Stiles goes to his dorm room and the first thing he does is put the plant on the windowsill. Then he throws himself on the bed and cries himself to sleep.

He seems to lose bits of his consciousness, because when he wakes up who knows how many hours later, he feels groggy and disoriented. When he looks towards the window, the plant is gone.

He rubs his eyes and tries to remember what he did before he fell asleep. He wonders if he’s entered an alternate universe. He stands up from his bed and goes to the window to see if the plant has fallen down. But what he sees makes him scream a little.

A man dressed all in black, in what looks like a special team’s uniform, is sleeping in the bushes under his window, his arms hugging Stiles’ plant. He has a black mask on his face. He looks exactly like one of the bastards from the hotel.

Stiles starts to hyperventilate in fear. He sits back on the bed, thankful that the man appears to be sleeping so Stiles has some time to think. When he calms a little, he realizes that no one could possibly know where he is. He frowns. And why would a special agent be hugging his plant?

Stiles grabs his pocketknife, thinking how Derek would be proud of him for his caution and climbs as silently as he can out of his window. He crouches next to the man. He observes him quietly and doesn’t let himself hope. It’s not possible. He tries to lift his mask a little, but it jolts the man awake and he grabs Stiles’ wrist. They look at each other.

Slowly, the man’s mouth splits in a bloody grin.

"Oh, my god." Stiles throws himself at Derek.

The man grunts. "Easy, baby. I’m injured."

But Stiles can't seem to stop. When he's kissed Derek for a thousandth time, Stiles eases up a little and helps Derek take his mask off. Stiles immediately starts peppering his face with kisses again. "I thought I'd lost you, I thought you died, Derek!", the boy cries.

"Shhhh now, baby," Derek hugs him. "I told you I’m never going to leave you."

"What happened? How... how did you manage to escape? I can’t believe it." Stiles tries to hug Derek as tightly as possible without hurting him. His hands roam all over his body, accounting for everything. 

"Easy. I took this uniform off a dead ESU officer and I sneaked out of the apartment building. No one noticed in that chaos. But… it was a close call, you know."

Stiles knows it all too well. He knows how close to death they both were. But nothing else matters now. Derek is alive, he is alive. If they survived this, they will survive anything. "What now?"

"Now… I find a doctor first. These wounds are too big for me to take care by myself. Then I lay low for a while. Deucalion’s dead and things will get better now, I think."

"He's dead?! Holy shitballs! That's great news!"

Derek chuckles. "It is."

They are quiet for a while. "How did he die?" Stiles wants to know.

Derek brushes his hair from his forehead. "I tried to track him down in that chaos, but I couldn’t… I almost gave up, but when I left the building, I saw him sitting in a police car, alone, hiding from everything and orchestrating the carnage from far away. I took a bomb and put it under his car. Then I knocked on his window. When he opened it, I put the safety pin into his hand. I said to him, ‘This is from Stiles’. He knew who I was when I said that. He grinned. ' _The Italian hit man'_ , he said. Then I jumped behind another car. He’s dead."

Stiles laughs a little. "My hero."

Derek looks at him with so much love in his eyes. "Your hero is about to pass out. I have to go, baby."

"Noooooooo," Stiles whines. "Don't leave me!"

"Shhhh, baby. I have to. You stay here. You're safe here. Please."

"Where are you going to go?"

"I don’t know. I’ll find a hotel. And after, a place. For us. I’ll come again, don’t worry."

"But I want to go with you!"

"No, Stiles. You stay here and you study, you hear. No discussion. You study so you can find a proper job. We’ll spend the weekends together, that has to be enough. No more... cleaning. For you, for me. New life."

Stiles doesn’t even have the strength to complain. He knows Derek is right. It’s for the best.

''When you finish school, we'll go some place nice, I promise. But first," Derek gets up with a little difficulty. "We plant the plant."

"What?"

"For the roots, you know. Let's pick a spot together," Derek says squeezing Stiles' hand a little.

Stiles smiles and lifts Derek’s hand to his lips. "For the roots."

 

 

THE END


End file.
